


The Devil's Master

by houseofcannibals



Series: HouseofCannibal's Hannigram Saga [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bondage and Discipline, Bottom Hannibal, Hannigram - Freeform, M/M, Oral Sex, Puppy Play, Sub Hannibal, hannibal in asylum
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-21
Updated: 2015-04-21
Packaged: 2018-03-25 01:15:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3791146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/houseofcannibals/pseuds/houseofcannibals
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal Lecter has finally been caught, and has been confined to the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane for several months. When Will comes to visit him for the first time, Hannibal expects Will to be frightened, given their history... But he quickly realises that Will has drawn his plans against him, and those plans involve a straitjacket, gag, and other instruments to humiliate, punish, and dominate Hannibal. And Hannibal can do nothing to stop him. Not that he wants to.<br/>This text follows on from the events of season 2 and re-imagines Will's first visit to the institutionalized Hannibal in 'Red Dragon'. Both Hannibal and Will work out their conflicted emotions for one another - desire and resentment, love and pain - both changed irreversibly by the other.</p><p>This is my first attempt at writing a fic and I think it turned out okay, so I hope you enjoy it and let me know what you think and if you want more!<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Devil's Master

# The Devil’s Master

Doctor Chilton was looking unusually chipper. Doctor Lecter had heard him coming down the stairs at the end of the long hallway that led to his cell, barking curt demands at orderlies, his cane tapping time with his portentous stride; Lecter had had plenty of time to put aside the loose sheaves of paper that composed the latest edition of Italian _Vogue_ he had been reading, and position himself in the centre of his small cell, brush some lint from the shoulder of his jumpsuit, and clasp his hands at his midriff, waiting. There were days when Chilton could sit outside the cell on his folding plastic chair with one leg crossed over the over and clipboard poised on his knee for hours without Doctor Lecter so much as raising his eyes once from whatever papers he was reading; and there were days, like today, when he would walk down the cells to find Lecter waiting for him, calm and composed, unnerving in his silence, his watchfulness. Doctor Lecter had nothing but time these days, oodles of it, and one of his solitary pleasures in the asylum was keeping Frederick Chilton on his toes.

Today, however, Chilton did not seem irritated to find Hannibal silently waiting for him in the darkness at the end of the hall. It was harder to read Chilton’s face these days – with the puckered red scar contorting his cheek, he had become somewhat restrained in his facial movement, rarely smiling more than a small twitch of the lips. He stopped outside Hannibal’s cell and rocked back on his heels, his eyes flashing with unconcealed glee. Hannibal tilted his head slightly to look down at the smaller man, and waited for Chilton to make the first move.

“Good evening Hannibal,” Chilton said.

“Frederick.”

Chilton’s face twitched minutely at the informality, but he made no comment. “You’ve got a visitor,” he said instead, patting his hair with a hand already shining with brylcreem. “He was very specific in the arrangements of his visitation. It’s all highly irregular, and I wouldn’t usually allow it, not with all the trouble it will cause us… But he was very, um, _persuasive_.”

Hannibal examined his keeper calmly with narrowed, piercing eyes. “Is it Will Graham?”

Chilton’s lips twitched up a fraction. “Mr Graham is rather pleased to finally see you in here, as was I. You caused us both an unpleasant amount of misfortune…” 

And here, Hannibal saw Chilton’s tongue move inside his mouth, tracing the ugly scar tissue left behind where the bullet had penetrated, a bullet which should have rightly gone in Hannibal. The hair had never grown back properly where it exited his skull, another thing Chilton was intensely self-conscious about. He wore his insecurities of the sleeves of his unbecoming brown tweed suit jacket, and Hannibal had picked up on them at once. He never missed an opportunity to goad the man. Chilton’s psychological damage alone was enough to keep Hannibal Lecter amused for the entirety of his nine consecutive life sentences. 

“You know I’m not particularly fond of the man, but we share a common grievance against you,” Chilton confided. “It’s for that reason that I’ve agreed to disable the microphones in this hallway, and allow Mr Graham to visit with you inside your cell. What I’m saying is, if he makes you scream, Hannibal, nobody is coming to stop him.”

Hannibal felt a peculiar thrill. “Does Will Graham plan to kill me, Frederick? Surely you cannot allow that. Even for such a poor psychiatrist, you know that would be unethical.”

Chilton did not react to the barb for a change. He could see that he had ruffled Hannibal’s feathers somewhat, and was enjoying himself immensely. After all, though he had promised to disable the microphones for Graham’s visit, nothing had been said about his _cameras_ , one of which was trained inside Lecter’s cell at all times. 

“Will Graham has promised to leave you very much alive and breathing, and mostly physically uninjured, if a little _sore_ ,” he said, clearly savouring the words. “But whatever else he wants to do to you, I’m afraid, is none of my concern.”

Hannibal wet his lips. “You are planning to allow him into my cell with me? Somebody could get hurt…”

Chilton smiled his tight little smile. “I rather count on it,” he said.

*

Hannibal did not struggle as the orderlies undertook the arduous process of restraining him; it would be undignified, and besides, he knew to pick his moments carefully. Struggle constantly, and he would only be restrained further, denied all his privileges, and have nothing to show for it. There would come a time, eventually, if he behaved, when they would let their guard down. He could wait. 

Chilton was watching from a safe distance, enjoying the view without getting too close. As his arms were pulled tight across his chest, Hannibal met Chilton’s eye and winked. He expected a reaction and got none. Chilton was usually so easy to goad, but today he was clearly holding all the cards, and seemed very assured in his hand. Hannibal was troubled. 

He considered receding into his own mind, wandering with some degree of contentment the decadent rooms and chambers he had constructed for himself there. Chilton could not reach him there, as much as he might like to. Will, though… Hannibal’s memory palace was not as secure a fortress as it once had been. Will had changed him; there were rooms in the palace these days which Hannibal did not recognise, and had not built himself. Hannibal was not entirely certain that Will could not tunnel inside. 

The orderlies pulled taut the final straps on his straightjacket and tugged them to check their strength. They were unfortunately thorough around him, at least for now; Hannibal was unable to move his arms at all. One strap had been left unfastened, however; the one which should have run between his legs. 

Chilton was saying something. With the threat contained, he had moved forward to lounge in the open cell door. Hannibal raised his eyes lazily to Chilton’s face, making sure Chilton knew he was bored of him. 

“That jacket suits you, Hannibal. I wish I could keep you in that fulltime. Oh, and I almost forgot – one last precaution.”

He held up a restraint mask constructed of clear plastic, shaped to fit the lower face and dotted with air holes. He could not know for sure, but Hannibal felt certain it was the same mask Will had been forced to wear when he himself was confined in this dull place. Will would have made sure of it. He was fond of poetic justice. 

A bored-looking orderly reached out a hand but Chilton swatted the man away impatiently. 

“No, no – I’ll put this on Doctor Lecter myself. I’ve been looking forward to it.”

He approached Hannibal, clearly relishing the moment. Hannibal’s eyes followed Chilton’s hands, noting the tender wrists peering out from his tweed cuffs – one wrong move on Chilton’s part, one quick dart of the head, and Hannibal could have ripped those prominent blue veins open with his teeth and spat the man’s hot blood back into his stunned face before he had a chance to scream. Hannibal ran his tongue along the ridge of his upper teeth. Killing Chilton would feel glorious, even if it ended in the severest of punishments. He was sorry to find that Chilton was careful, and fitted the mask from behind. It was a snug fit, the plastic digging into the flesh of Hannibal’s cheeks. Chilton rapped the knuckle of his index finger on the hard plastic over Hannibal’s mouth, and smiled. Hannibal caught a whiff of his soap and hand lotion. Chilton’s skin was pleasantly fragrant in the clinical dankness of the asylum. In his mind, Hannibal’s fingers flipped through his recipe cards, traced the bottles in his wine rack, removed one to examine, something red and slightly tart to accompany the meal. He felt a touch of regret, not for the first time, at not having eaten Chilton when he had the chance. Still. There was time. There was plenty of time. 

“I wish I could stay to enjoy the view, but your visitor will be arriving any minute now,” Chilton was saying. “I don’t want to delay; he is just _dying_ to see you Hannibal.”

“Don’t be offended if Will blanches at the sight of you, Frederick,” Hannibal said. “He doesn’t have the stomach for witnessing unspeakable mutilation anymore.”

Chilton’s face flushed with colour, his scar standing out angry red. He strode out of the cell, but turned back with a tight, ruthless sneer. 

“I think you’re going to find out exactly what Will Graham is capable of today, Hannibal, and you won’t be laughing when he’s through with you. And what’s more, I’m going to make sure that _everybody_ knows it. Have fun.”

He left, the orderlies trailing behind him. 

Hannibal stood perfectly still for a moment in the centre of his small cell, digesting Chilton’s words. He was unsettled, a feeling he was not accustomed to and did not enjoy. He shifted his shoulders minutely, testing the fit of the straightjacket. It was tight. Without teeth free to bite the straps, he would be unable to remove it anyway. A strand of hair had fallen over his forehead and he wanted desperately to put it back in place. He exhaled through his teeth, breath whispering inside the mask. He felt a terrible need to gain control of the situation somehow. He was greatly displeased at the idea of Will seeing him rattled. 

He had not seen Will for many months, not since the trial. Will had testified against him, of course, looking pale and sick in the same courtroom where he himself had almost been strung up for Hannibal’s crimes. Will’s mannerisms had regressed somewhat; he had had trouble meeting anyone’s eye, least of all Hannibal’s. The way he held himself suggested he was still in considerable pain, which was understandable; Hannibal knew very well how deep the blade had gone, how cruel its path. He had seen Will standing with Jack Crawford in an intermission, Crawford trying to put a hand on Will’s shoulder, and Will flinching away, his face closed off. Crawford, tired but ferocious, had been a force to be reckoned with at the trial. He had deliberately worn an open-necked shirt on the stand to show his scar. All that rage – rage at what Hannibal had done, but also rage at himself for being unable to stop it sooner, rage at his ignorance, at his failure to prevent Will Graham from breaking, or his wife from slowly dying. Jack Crawford was fuelled by rage, and though it had been a powerful ally in court, it could easily be his undoing. Hannibal had noted it all with the precision and clarity the memory palace required. In his mind, he had already composed the letter he would send Jack when lovely Bella finally died. 

Jack Crawford had pushed for the death penalty, as Hannibal had known he would; despite his flaws, Jack Crawford was a man who learned from his mistakes, and he understood very well what a dangerous thing it was to leave Hannibal Lecter alive. Will had concurred when asked, though he did so with hesitancy of a lover choosing a casket for their perished beloved. Hannibal’s keen ears, always tuned to the courthouse gossip throughout his very public and aggrandized trial, had come to know that Will Graham had been heard throwing up violently in the men’s restrooms after his testimony. He had not looked well at all when he listened to the verdict being read. He had not looked at Hannibal at all, instead staring fixedly at the rims of his glasses sitting low on his nose. 

The jury had come back with a vote of insanity without being asked. Jack Crawford had sworn loudly and later kicked over a chair. Will had already left by then. 

Hannibal dreamt of Will often. 

The steel door of the maximum security ward opened and closed with an echoing rattle and thud. Footsteps down the corridor. Hannibal felt his heartrate pick up a fraction. He straightened his back. He caught Will’s scent almost at once, and felt a bead of sweat roll down the small of his back beneath the straightjacket. He wet his lips, wishing again he could smooth back his hair. The straightjacket felt tighter suddenly. He was very aware of his breathing. 

It seemed to take an agonisingly long time for Will to reach his cell, but when he did, Hannibal found he wasn’t ready. 

Will Graham is not a tall man, but he is lean and strong and can carry himself with some gravity when he chooses to. Hannibal had expected Will to be frightened, to have continued receding into himself as he was prone to do when under stress. This did not seem to be the case. Will walked with the poise and lithe elegance a man like Chilton could only dream of, his chin up and his eyes fixed straight ahead. The glasses he often wore to avoid eye contact were nowhere in sight. 

Will was dressed in a three-piece suit, dark charcoal with a subtle pinstripe, cut close to the body and accentuating his slim frame. The shirt beneath was impeccably crisp, the dark blue paisley tie strikingly bold. A silk pocket square was visible from the breast pocket. In one hand, he carried a brown leather briefcase with polished brass fastenings. This close, Will’s scent was maddeningly powerful and appealing to Hannibal’s refined nose; his mouth filled at once with saliva. Will smelled familiar, like the comforting scent of one’s own home when one has been away for some time, but not entirely. There was that terrible cologne, which he swore Will wore deliberately to displease him. Now shoe polish and good soap. The sweet musk of Will’s sweat and pheromones. And something beneath it all, faint but still he caught a whiff… Hannibal had heard that Will retired to Florida to repair diesel engines, and now he believed that was probably true; he smelt faintly of oil and salt water and seafood. Will was very tan, and his hands looked rougher than Hannibal remembered them. So, he had run away after all. And now he was back. 

Hannibal swallowed the saliva that had flooded his mouth. Will looked very good. The suit flattered him. Hannibal thought longingly of his own, so long estranged – which, of course, had been Will’s intent. Still, however well Will wore it, Hannibal was overwhelmed with the sudden desperate desire to rip it off and have him. 

Will did not fail to notice the way Hannibal’s eyes flitted up and down his figure, lingering too long, before meeting his eye. He smoothed his suit jacket with his free hand and coolly examined the bound man standing before him. 

“Hello, Doctor Lecter,” he said.

Hannibal managed to compose himself. It took more willpower than he was accustomed to. 

“Hello Will. Is that one of my ties?”

“It is, yes,” Will said, adjusting the knot slightly at his throat. “Jack Crawford gave it to me when I told him my intention to visit you. Most of your things are on permanent display at the Evil Minds Research Museum. Appropriate enough, I suppose.”

“If I remember Jack Crawford’s words correctly, you believe that the museum mythologizes banal and cruel men who don’t deserve to be thought of as super villains.”

“Yes,” Will said. “But everything you did was designed to mythologize yourself, Hannibal; you didn’t need Jack Crawford or the FBI’s help doing that.”

Hannibal offered a slight smile that did not sit right on his strange, unearthly face. “It’s good to see you, Will.”

“It’s good to see you, too. Let me rephrase that. It’s good to see you _in here_.”

Hannibal rolled his eyes. “You don’t need to patronise me; I am acutely aware of my position. I always knew that this fate was a possibility, and I made my arrangements accordingly. I know that they will never, ever let me out while I’m alive – you and Jack Crawford and Alana Bloom will see to that. You all believe it is a victory to confine me to a prison cell, when any rational society would either kill me or put me to some use.”

“I’m going to put you to good use, don’t you worry,” Will said, softly.

The tip of Lecter’s tongue protruded from his mouth and touched his upper lip. “I am curious, Will. Even now, you can surprise me. I fed the caterpillar, whispered through the chrysalis, but what hatched followed its own nature, and was beyond me.” He paused, his penetrating eyes examining Will’s face as if looking through to the back of his skull. “Are you here to hurt me?”

“That depends, I think, on interpretation,” Will said slowly, choosing his words with precision, his voice deathly calm and quiet. “I am here to do to you precisely what you did to me.”

“In your mind, what did I do to you?”

“You made me lose control,” Will said, sharply. He gave a small cough, turned his face away momentarily, staring off into the dark of the hallway while he composed himself. “I was doing _fine_ , Doctor Lecter, before I met you. You changed me. You got inside my head and you scrambled who I was, and even now…” He broke off, inhaling through his teeth and letting the breath out slowly. 

“Yes?” Hannibal said, almost breathless in his eagerness.

Will turned back to look at him. “You got inside my head, Hannibal. I think it’s only fair that I get inside your body.”

There was a moment of pure silence. Then Will drew back the bars of Hannibal’s cell and stepped inside, setting his briefcase down on the metal desk. 

“Shall we begin?” he asked. His face was as closed-off as it had been in court. 

Hannibal was experiencing something that was almost entirely foreign to him: a loss for words. His mouth, salivating at Will’s arrival, had suddenly become very dry. 

“You know that Chilton has cameras in every part of this hospital?” he said, unusually hoarse. “He may have disabled his listening devices, but you can be sure he is watching.”

Will took a step toward him. Hannibal felt himself on the verge of taking a step back, but resisted.

“I have no doubt that Chilton is watching our every move,” Will said. “Nor do I doubt that he will jerk off to the footage later in his office with the door locked. That doesn’t concern me. It should perhaps concern you. I might give him… _ideas_ … for your therapy. He and I are fans of the unorthodox, I think.”

Hannibal tried to swallow, but could not. “Why are you here, Will?” he said.

“Oh, you know why I’m here,” Will said. He slipped out of his suit jacket, folded it carefully over his arm and placed it beside his briefcase. He paused and picked up some loose papers from Hannibal’s desk, drawings – many of them of Will himself, Hannibal realised; Will on the kitchen floor, clutching his abdomen to stop his life slipping out of him in a great wash of blood and viscera; Will as he had looked at his own trial, but with his head open and brains exposed; Will mounted on a stag’s head, naked, bleeding, sweating and dying. Will on the bed, bound to the headboard, blindfolded and gagged, an array of instruments laid out on the dresser beside him. Will gasping and helpless and screaming for mercy. 

Will flipped through the drawings with a wry smirk, chuckling. He turned back to Hannibal, beginning to unbutton his waistcoat now. 

“You’ve got a lot of pent up aggression toward me, Doctor Lecter. And something else, I think, but I’m no psychiatrist. And here I am, right in front of you, so close you can probably smell the blood pumping through my veins, and you can do nothing about it. You know why I am here, what I intend to do to you, and you can do nothing about it. How does it make you feel?”

“How does it make you feel, Will?”

“ _Powerful_ ,” Will murmured. The waistcoat was off now. His slim hands were loosening the paisley tie with excruciating slowness. Hannibal struggled to keep his eyes on Will’s face. He looked good enough to eat. 

“I can feel your madness in my head, like a spill,” Will continued, slipping the tie out from under his collar, undoing the uppermost buttons of his shirt. “Only I won’t try to contain it. I will use your own madness and aggression against you.”

Hannibal could hear the sound of his own breathing inside the mask, maddening now. The plastic was becoming fogged. He could feel himself stirring, stiffening at Will’s words. He could not deny his arousal. But he also could not deny that he was afraid. 

He wet his lips again, swallowed with some difficulty. He had fantasized about Will often, in the days before Will denied him for the final time, disowned him, like Saint Peter before Christ’s crucifixion. He had imagined Will face down on the bed, gasping for breath, crying out Hannibal’s name as he came. He had seen, in startling detail, Will in the basement, hands chained above his head, naked body glistening with sweat and trembling with trepidation, with anticipation. He had imagined many scenarios between himself and Will, but his narcissism was such that he had never once pictured Will in control, and himself on the receiving end.

Will paused to look Hannibal up and down, savouring the view. The man was barefoot – that was good, his feet would be a sensitive spot – and the blue institutional jumpsuit disappeared at the waist beneath the tight white straightjacket in which he was bound. His hair had been shorn short at the sides, slicked back on top, a strand of silver-streaked brown falling over his forehead, no doubt ruffled from being restrained. That was fine; it would all be ruffled when Will was finished. Hannibal’s face had grown paler in the months he had been incarcerated. There were no windows in his cell; he was certainly not allowed outside. Will wondered how pale the rest of him was. 

“The straightjacket may have been a mistake,” he murmured, with a small sigh. “What it adds in theatricality, it restricts in… access. I should have liked to do something to your nipples.”

“Take it off then,” Hannibal said.

Will frowned, running his tongue around his lips as he considered. “You would try to run, or to fight me. Or reverse our positions, I suspect. You forget I know you, Hannibal. There is nothing you would like more than to see me bent over and helpless.”

Hannibal said nothing, the light catching the red flecks in his eyes and making them flash. 

“No, I think we’ll keep the jacket on,” Will said. “That’s fine. There’s plenty else I plan to do to you. I came prepared.”

“You smell of fear, Will,” Hannibal said. “You smell of fear and that cheap cologne. You are not going to fuck me because you know that, if our positions were reversed, I would fuck you. You cannot stand anything which reminds you that we are just alike.”

“I think you underestimate how profoundly you changed me,” Will said.

Before Hannibal could react, Will kicked his legs out from under him and Hannibal fell heavily onto the dirty floor. He was momentarily dazed. When he came to his senses, he struggled to roll himself onto his side, his bound torso writhing as though he were trying to free himself from a tight cocoon. Will towered over him. In his hands, he held the paisley tie.

“I think you need some quiet time, Doctor Lecter,” Will said. “That mouth of yours gets away from you. I should have had Chilton gag you before I arrived.” 

He knelt quickly and held Hannibal’s face down with one hand while the other fumbled to undo the straps of the restraint mask. Before Hannibal could think to bite him, Will had tossed the mask to one side and rolled Hannibal onto his front, one knee pressed into Hannibal’s back between his shoulder blades while he gagged the man with his own tie and knotted it tightly behind his head. A single guttural snarl escaped Hannibal, but he made no other sound. Will ran his fingers through Hannibal’s hair, then slapped his cheek. He stood up and admired his tableaux. Hannibal’s eyes followed him like a hawk. 

“I see Hannibal Lecter gagged and bound on the floor where he belongs,” Will said to the figure at his feet. “He can see me coming, but can do nothing to stop me. This is my design.”

The muscles in Hannibal’s jaw worked around the gag in his mouth. He tried to say something, drooling slightly, but all that came out was a thick and incoherent moan. Will shushed him, then spat on his face. Hannibal flinched. 

“He likes control, so I remove that possibility entirely,” Will said, watching his saliva drip down Hannibal’s face and registering the man’s irritation at being unable to wipe it off. “He will submit to me completely, and he will know when I am through that this is all that is left for him. This is my design.”

He grabbed the straps on the back of Hannibal’s straightjacket and hauled him up and across the floor, Hannibal’s bare feet dragging, then pushed him up against the bed, kneeling, his face pressed into the sheets and his ass up. Hannibal twisted his head and Will flicked him on the nose as he would a dog. He removed a small knife from his pants pocket and held it in front of Hannibal’s face for him to see. The light glinted off its blade, off the red in Hannibal’s eyes.

“I could stick you like a hog,” Will said, toying with the knife. His other hand rested on Hannibal’s firm behind; he gave it a squeeze, then a slap. “You are a slim and delicate pig. If I cut you now, in the right place, you’d bleed to death before Chilton could get down here to help you. Of course, I could always castrate you. That would curb your aggression, wouldn’t it?”

He toyed with the knife a moment more then, in one smooth motion quick enough to make Hannibal wince, he slit the man’s jumpsuit from crotch to lower back, where it met the straightjacket. The boxers beneath were rough and grey, far from the designer briefs Will had found in an evidence locker when he got finally got out of the hospital, when he spent several melancholy days wandering through Hannibal’s life, boxed and tagged and documented, in the basement of the FBI building. He had touched the rich fabric of the suits, run his fingers through the neat folds of undergarments, raised some to his face when he was sure he was alone, breathing in the lingering scents of Hannibal, fine cologne and Italian hand cream, almonds, something citrus… 

Even Jack Crawford didn’t know about that, though he might have suspected as much. He had not questioned Will when he asked for time alone with Hannibal’s things, nor had he commented when Will finally rose from the evidence rooms like Lazarus from the pit, eyes rimmed red, hoarse from shouting at the nothing, at the absence Hannibal had left behind. Jimmy Price and Brian Zeller had exchanged looks – Price had even opened his mouth. But a look from Jack had kept them silent. They allowed Will space to grieve. 

“Let’s see what we’ve got,” Will murmured, carefully slicing open Hannibal’s boxers as if unwrapping a present. The bare flesh beneath looked smooth and pale as marble in the dim light. Will ran a finger up Hannibal’s ass, feeling him shudder beneath him, and smiled. 

“I was in the hospital for a very long time, Doctor Lecter,” he said. “I don’t know how closely you followed my recovery… I’ve been told that _TattleCrime.com_ reported it in _intimate_ detail… Freddie Lounds posed as a nurse to get past the security detail at my door and pulled back the sheets to take pictures of my scars.”

The words were distasteful in his mouth, bitter, and still ached when probed like a rotten tooth. The look in Hannibal’s eyes told Will that he had the pictures, seen Will’s sad and shrunken frame in the hospital bed, the tubes going into him, the bandages, the bruises, the stitches. Will swallowed. The memory was still as raw as ever.

“I didn’t have many visitors,” he continued, voice very soft now. “Most of our _mutual acquaintances_ were in intensive care down the hall, still enjoying the parting _gifts_ you left us all. I would wake alone and in pain and call someone’s name. They tell me it was sometimes Abigail. Mostly it was you. I would scream your name until the nurses came and drugged me again, and, then I would sleep sweetly, deeply, just… wading into the quiet of the stream. Until they began to wean me off the drugs. And I started to _hurt_.”

With one hand, he unbuttoned his shirt and untucked it from his pants, left it open over his smooth, tanned chest, his slim but muscular abdomen with the looping scar that never tanned. He traced the scar with one finger, up to where it notched under his ribs, then looked back at Hannibal, his eyes hard. 

“As I lay in hospital in agony, I thought of you. I had plenty of time to think and to plan and to dream. I dreamt of everything I would do to you when they caught you, when I caught you – I dreamt in _vivid_ detail. And here we are.”

He spread his hands, the knife still tucked in his palm. It was about the same size as the one Hannibal had gutted him with. 

Hannibal tried to say something around the tie in his mouth, but the words were lost in the fabric. Will understood though. 

“Will you forgive me, Will?”

Will looked down at the man bent over before him, the man who had singlehandedly destroyed the lives of almost everyone Will loved, and many others beyond that. 

“The real question,” he said, slowly, “is whether you will forgive me, when I’m finished with you.”

He turned to the desk and set the knife down, opened the clasps on his briefcase. His hands were steady; he felt more composed than he had done in years. He examined the items he had brought with him thoughtfully. He had felt a little embarrassed, a little uncertain, when he first began to collect the items he thought he might need to tame Hannibal Lecter. Will enjoyed sex, though it had always come to him before as an organic thing, one which flowered suddenly and splendidly and sometimes caught him off guard in its beauty. It was not something he had had to plan for in the past, but he had known at once that it would have to be different with Hannibal. He could not simply walk in and take him, as much as he might like to; Hannibal would fight for control at every turn, and if he could not, he would simply disappear into his own head and leave Will alone and feeling foolish. No, he hadn’t come down here for that. Will wanted Hannibal to _want_ for him. He wanted Hannibal desperate and helpless and begging Will to take him. He wanted Hannibal to take what he was given, whatever he was given, and say thank you for it.

Will wanted to do to Hannibal what Hannibal had done to him. He remembered all too well how intense and tortuous his own feelings towards the man had been. There had been a time, he could not deny it, when he would have gotten down on his knees and licked Hannibal’s shoes clean if Hannibal had told him to. And he would have enjoyed it.

He stared thoughtfully at his instruments for a moment more, before removing one and turning round for Hannibal to see. And almost at once, as he had predicted, Hannibal began to struggle.

“Relax your mind,” Will murmured. “I just need you to open up for me a bit.”

“Mmmmmnnngggg pppmmm mmaapphhh,” Hannibal said, torso jerking from side to side as he tried to free himself from his tight restraints. 

“I’m going to take you later, and I don’t think you’re ready for me yet,” Will said. “I’m just getting you ready. There’s no need for that _attitude_.”

He looked down at the butt plug he had selected, still smiling too himself. It was relatively small… But not too small. It would certainly make an impression.

He slipped the tip of the plug between his lips, and ran his tongue around it. Then he sucked the entire thing. It was enough of a mouthful; it would certainly stretch Hannibal’s tight little ass out a little, he thought with a stir of pleasure. He wondered if it was Hannibal’s first time taking it this way. He felt certain it was. 

Hannibal said something garbled and muffled which sounded to Will like _“if you put that fucking thing in me I will kill you”_. If it was a threat, it carried no weight. Hannibal’s eyes expressed how far from being in control he felt. 

Will took the thing out of his mouth, a thin string of saliva hanging from his lips and then breaking. He chewed his lip, then turned back to his briefcase for something. With two fingers, he slid a bead of clear, sweet-smelling lubricant around the thing in his hand. Then he crossed the cell to where Hannibal knelt, his knees drawn tightly together.

“I’m easing you in gently,” Will said, holding out the plug for Hannibal to see the lubricant glistening on its surface. “It’s not going to hurt. Now open your legs for me.”

Hannibal did not move. 

“Open your legs for me, Dr Lecter. I can see you clenching. This doesn’t need to hurt, but I can make it.”

Hannibal’s legs remained together, trembling slightly. Will sighed. He had known Hannibal would not make this easy. Kneeling beside Hannibal, he set the plug down and forcibly pulled his legs apart with his hands. Hannibal at once drew his knees together. Will tried again but Hannibal kicked at him this time before drawing his legs closed once more, catching Will’s thigh and eliciting a low grunt of pain. Frustrated, Will flicked the tender sole of the man’s bare foot, then stood up. He had come prepared for this. From his case he removed an extendable metal bar on which two leather cuffs were attached. He expanded the bar to its full width before approaching Hannibal again and locking one of his ankles in a cuff. This time, as he forced Hannibal’s legs apart, he grabbed the other ankle and locked it in place. Hannibal struggled, but the metal was sturdy. His legs remained nicely spread. 

Humming now, Will stood between Hannibal’s spread legs and examined his exposed ass. Hannibal tried to raise his torso from the bed, but Will gripped him by the hair and forced his face back onto the mattress. He sucked the fingers of his free hand, and slipped one into Hannibal’s ass, and then another. The doctor moaned involuntarily and his body fell slack. Will pushed the fingers in deeper, moving them around, searching for the sweet spot. He heard Hannibal’s guttural wet moans as the fingers brushed his prostate, and pulled them out. Still holding Hannibal’s face down into the sheets so he couldn’t see what was to come, Will picked up the butt plug. He slipped its slim tip into Hannibal’s ass, lingering, teasing. Hannibal had time to make one last half-hearted objection, then Will put the whole thing inside of him.

“MMMMMMM-ohhmmmhhh _nnnnnnngggg_.”

Hannibal moaned deeply, with a shudder of pleasure. He enjoyed sex a good deal, and had had it often in his previous life, though he had never sought it with desperate abandon as some men did. He enjoyed the pleasure of dominating another person so completely, even more so in the knowledge that he might well consume them later. This was something entirely different and new to him, however. He had never been penetrated before.

“So tight,” Will murmured to himself. He toyed with the plug in Hannibal’s ass, twisting it inside of him, pulling it out an inch, hesitating, before slowly sliding it back in, eliciting more low moans from Hannibal. After a minute, he let go of Hannibal’s hair and stepped back. Hannibal raised his face from the sheets. A glistening thread of drool hung from his chin.

“You took that very well,” Will said. “I hope it feels good. Later, I’ll let you have my cock, if you behave. But you shouldn’t have tried to kick me. I will need to punish you for that. It’s the only way you’re going to learn.”

Hannibal made an indecipherable noise. Will ignored him. From his briefcase, he removed a slim but sturdy leather riding crop. He struck it across his palm with a snap which left his hand stinging. He held it up for Hannibal to see.

“I got this on loan from Margot Verger,” Will said. “We’ve been spending a lot of time together recently, and we talk about you. It’s like our own Hannibal Lecter support group.” He laughed, humourlessly. “While Margot is not opposed to what you did to her brother, Hannibal, she will never forgive you for the part you played in him taking her womb. Nor will I, for that matter. When I told her I was coming to see you, as a therapy of sorts, she was very supportive. I shall have to get a copy of the tape from Chilton; I’m sure she’d love to see it. Mason, too, for that matter.”

Hannibal’s eyes were dangerous, but he did not try to speak. 

“Margot is very supportive of your punishment,” Will murmured, slapping the crop across his palm again. “But, see, I think she’s too soft on you. I’m not sure this thing will be enough to teach you your lesson. So I brought one of my own as well.”

He held up a black leather paddle, its surface dotted with raised metal studs. He did not need to smack this one across his palm for Hannibal to know how sore it would be. 

“I’m going to start with Margot’s crop,” Will said, his voice calm and reasonable. “And if you’re good and start doing what you’re told, maybe I won’t need to use the other one – and believe me when I say, you don’t want me to use the other one, not if you want to sit comfortably for the rest of the week. Now, how does that sound?”

Hannibal’s jaw muscles were working; suddenly, he spat the tie out of his mouth, his lips twisted in a sneer. 

“You can leave now, Will. Leave now and I won’t hurt you again – go back to Florida and you’ll never hear from me. But if you hit me with that thing, I promise I’ll kill you.”

Will made a small tutting sound, shaking his head. “Looks like we’re going to have to use both after all.”

“I swear I’ll kill you,” Hannibal snarled, chin still slick with spittle. 

“From where I’m standing, you’re not _really_ in any position to make threats like that, are you?” Will said. “I think maybe we need a sturdier gag for you. Keep that mean tongue of yours under wraps.”

He laid the crop and the paddle on the bed where Hannibal could see them, then grabbed a ball gag from his tools. Hannibal pressed his lips shut as he had his knees. Will sighed again, and pinched his nose. Hannibal held out admirably for about twenty seconds, but the second he caved and gasped for breath, Will stuffed the gag deeply into his mouth and fastened it securely behind his head. Hannibal began to drool almost at once. Will had tried the gag on himself when he bought it, and knew it was an uncomfortable device. The sight of Hannibal wearing it was intensely arousing.

“You shouldn’t have spit out the tie,” he said reproachfully, removing the tie in question from where it hung around Hannibal’s neck. “Let’s see you get that one out on your own. Your jaw is going to ache tomorrow. But I’m sure we can still put this to good use.”

He smoothed out the paisley tie, and lowered it over Hannibal’s eyes. The fabric was still sodden with his drool, cooling now; it could not have felt pleasant. Will tied the tie behind his head like a blindfold, his hand lingering momentarily, stroking Hannibal’s hair. He picked up the crop and brushed it across Hannibal’s face, then down his back and bottom, pausing with it lying flat on his pale left cheek.

“Anticipation is a strange feeling, isn’t it?” he murmured. “You know it’s coming, know with certainty, yet you can’t stop it. Like the relentless pull of the tides. You are powerless before me.”

He snapped the crop across his own palm again. Hannibal visibly winced. Will smiled. He sat down on the bed beside Hannibal and pulled him over his lap like a disobedient child. Hannibal wriggled slightly, but could do little more. Will stroked the tip of the crop across his ass again, enjoying the way Hannibal’s toes curled on the cold floor. 

“The line between pleasure and pain, between desire and destruction, is very thin,” Will said. “You taught me that. I want you to forget where that line is, Hannibal.”

He raised the crop and brought it down sharply onto Hannibal’s behind. Hannibal bit down into his gag but did not make a sound. Some saliva dropped from his lips and onto the floor.

Will brought the crop down again, and then a third time. The marks stood out angry red against Hannibal’s pale flesh. Will put his hand over the marks, moved his thumb over the skin in small circles. Hannibal felt cool and soft beneath his rough hands.

“You’ve lost a little weight,” he murmured, giving the ass a little slap and watching the skin quiver. “I know from experience that the food here isn’t quite up the standards you’re used to. I’m not entirely convinced that the orderlies don’t piss into it before they bring it to you. Or cum, maybe.”

Hannibal said nothing. He was breathing steadily through his nose. Will snapped his fingers several times in front of the doctor’s face, then pushed his head down and gave the back of his neck a sharp slap with the crop. 

“I don’t want you to hide in your memory palace. I want you out here with me, the whole time. Would you like me to stop hitting you?”

Hannibal remained silent. 

“I guess it’s time for the paddle then,” Will said, with a sigh. He picked it up and tested its weight in his hand. It felt good, sturdy. He pressed it against Hannibal’s bottom, just above the thighs, so he could feel the metal studs. “Are you listening to me? If you’re in your memory palace, consider this a polite knock at the door.”

He smacked the paddle, hard, across Hannibal’s ass, feeling the man’s whole body tense as it hit home. The sound of the impact was wonderfully satisfying. A sheen of sweat had formed on Hannibal’s forehead. He was dribbling profusely. Though he could not be sure, Will felt that Hannibal was very much present; there was a deliberateness to his silence which felt staged, petulant. He would have to break him of that attitude real quick. 

“You need to start – doing what – I tell you,” Will murmured, punctuating his speech with more smacks of the paddle. “And that includes – answering your master – when he asks you – a question.”

The paddle left even redder marks on Hannibal’s ass than the crop had. Will could see where the studs had caught him. He was going to have bruises in the morning, and plenty of them. 

He brought the paddle down again, putting his whole arm into it this time. Finally, Hannibal caved, issuing a long, pained moan that was sweeter to Will’s ears than a lover’s confession. His whole body was quivering. 

Will smiled, and put his thumb under Hannibal’s chin, tilting his face up to get a good look at him. Drool hung from his bottom lip. The blindfold was a nice touch. Will enjoyed looking at Hannibal, especially trussed up like this, and it was all the more satisfying knowing how frustrated Hannibal must feel being unable to look back.

“Say thank you,” Will instructed, stroking Hannibal’s chin. 

Hannibal said nothing. 

Will brought the paddle down, watching the muscles in Hannibal’s face clench in pain, watching him bite down, his eyes no doubt squeezing shut beneath the blindfold. 

“Say thank you.”

Silence. 

Will struck him again, hard, eliciting a grunt and a moan. “Say thank you, master, and I’ll stop,” he said.

He saw Hannibal struggling to swallow around the gag, but he remained silent. Will pushed his face away and instead grabbed the metal bar spreading Hannibal’s legs, pulling them up so they were bent at the knee and the soles of his feet were pointed up towards Will. He gave each foot several hard, eye-watering smacks with the paddle. Hannibal’s head was bowed, but Will could see a tear rolling down his cheek. By the sixth of seventh assault on his feet, he had begun to whimper quietly. Will smacked both feet again, twice for good measure, then dropped them back to the floor and set to work on the ass once more. 

Hannibal was breathing heavily, and from the position of his body slung over Will’s knees, Will could feel his erection pressing against his leg. Each smack of the paddle, each involuntarily jerk of Hannibal’s body, and Hannibal’s erection rubbed harder against Will. Will wondered if Hannibal could feel his own stiff cock through the thick fabric of the straightjacket. Even if he couldn’t, the small noises Will was making in his throat must have given him away. The stinging impact of the paddle against Hannibal’s skin was like music, and he could not help but make sounds of pleasure on hearing it. 

“Say _thank you_ ,” he instructed again. Another strike, another muffled whimper from Hannibal. “You’re a psychopath, not a masochist. Say thank you, master, and save yourself.”

He issued one final, forceful smack, and Hannibal caved. He raised his head and turned his face toward Will. A bead of sweat rolled down his nose, quivered, then dropped. 

“Faaa uu mabber,” he said, the words lost in the gag. With his tongue depressed, it was very difficult to make anything other than vowel sounds. 

“Didn’t catch that,” Will said, raising the paddle again.

“FAMMK OOU MABSTER,” Hannibal repeated, louder, with a visible effort to enunciate the words. 

Will considered him for a moment, then undid the straps of Hannibal’s gag. Careful to keep his fingers clear of the teeth, he pulled the gag out of Hannibal’s mouth and set it aside. Hannibal inhaled a heaving breath. Will pulled the blindfold off as well, leaving Hannibal blinking against the sudden light.

“Again,” Will commanded.

“Thank you… master,” Hannibal said, quietly. He bowed his head, sweaty hair falling over his face. 

“Good boy,” Will murmured, stroking Hannibal’s head. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Hannibal said nothing, his lip twitching, glaring at the floor. 

“That was only the first course,” Will said. “You’ll do as you’re told from now on, and you’ll do it the first time you’re asked, or I’ll make you wish you had. I’m going to keep the paddle close. Do you understand me?”

Hannibal looked up at him again, lips slightly parted, his breathing still laboured. “Remarkable boy,” he said, hoarsely. “I’m going to eat you one day, Will. I think I’ll eat your heart first.”

“You already have,” Will muttered, and smacked Hannibal’s sore ass, hard, with his bare hand. Hannibal cried out, bit his lip. Will pushed him off his knee and onto the bed, standing up himself. Hannibal wriggled pathetically, trying to sit, but could not. It was an image Will enjoyed immensely and he stood watching for a full minute, before turning his back to Hannibal to examine his instruments again. 

Hannibal continued to writhe, and then fell still. With his ankles spread and locked in place, he couldn’t do much to right himself. He lay on his back, breathing heavily, watching Will with wary yet hungry eyes. He had momentarily lost control, he could not deny that, and he was slightly frightened at the realisation. He had not thought that possible. But Will… Will had introduced Hannibal to a lot of new feelings, and now it seemed that he wanted to introduce him to new experiences as well. 

“This new side of you is fascinating to bear witness to, Will,” Hannibal said. “I must confess, I’m proud of you.”

“You should be,” Will said, without turning around. “You made me like this.”

“Not at all. I saw the monster growing under your skin, but I did not put it there. You are your own design.”

“You should stop talking while you’re ahead,” Will murmured. “I’m letting you take a breather, but that gag is going back in sooner or later.”

“Is this the reckoning you promised me, Will?”

Will spun round, a fleck of spittle flying from his lips. 

“You will know it when it happens.”

“Tell me. When you dream of my destruction, how do you imagine it?”

Will wet his lips. One hand unconsciously came up to trace his scar as he spoke. “I imagine you helpless and desperate and calling my name,” he said. “The way you left me.”

Hannibal’s smile was deadly. “You speak of reckonings, while ignoring the truth that is staring you in the face.”

“And that would be?”

“You did not come here today to hurt me. You missed me.”

Will chewed his lip, but said nothing.

“There is no reason to feel guilty about it,” Hannibal purred. “I missed you too. You and I are unique in an endless tide of dullards. It is only natural that you should be drawn toward me, and I you, like sailors to the bright promise of a lighthouse beam on the unforgiving seas. You have fantasised about being with me since we first met.”

“Yes,” Will said, hesitantly.

“And I you. Tell me Will. When you fantasized about fucking me, or being fucked by me, when you knew who I really was – in your fantasies, was I always incarcerated?”

“Yes,” Will said, forcefully this time, though it was not entirely true. 

Hannibal made a sound of irritation at the obvious lie. 

“You are so burdened with your tedious morality that you will not admit the truth of your desire, even to yourself. Would you like to know what I think?”

“Not especially, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”

“I think you’re scared, Will. I think you’re scared because you want me to be free, even after what we did to each other, even against all the morality and obedience to the law the FBI has drilled into you as necessary truths. You want me to be free, and you’re scared because you’re not sure if you would stop me, or try to kill, or come with me. I’m going to get out of this cell one day, Will – no, not with the law’s blessing, I know that will never be the case, not unless Jack Crawford can convince the courts to give me the needle someday after all. But I will get out of my own volition, and you know it. And you know that you could help me, and we could be free. You could leave Jack Crawford and his tedious crime-fighting behind. We could be free together.”

Will was silent, unsure what would come out of his mouth if he opened it.

“We could go to Italy, Will,” Hannibal said. “I love Italy. We could go there together, you and I, and we could be happy. We would spend our days wandering the market stalls and galleries, and in the evening we would go to the opera, and I could cook for you. At night you could have me, and I you – I would give myself to you entirely, Will. It is possible that you could frighten me. Sex is a splendid structure and we would add to it every day.”

Will could see it. He could see Hannibal in white tie, slender and elegant, stepping out of his Bentley and moving round to get the door for him, taking his hand and leading him up the steps of the Teatro della Pergola, the crowd parting for them with admiring glances and murmurs, and Hannibal pausing to kiss his hand, his cheek, his lips, caressing his fingers throughout the first act of _Fidelio_ , caressing other things in the second act; and after, both flushed and eager, they would retire home and make love into the small hours, voraciously, and Will would give in to the dark tide washing over him and allow Hannibal to envelope him entirely…

He would be happy. They would be happy. 

Will searched Hannibal’s face for traces of a lie and saw clearly, perhaps for the first time, how empty the space behind Hannibal’s eyes was. He reminded himself, forcefully, that Hannibal did not love, beyond love of self; he was incapable of such a human emotion. He had his amusements, and Will was one of them, but such passing pleasures did not constitute love. He could leave with Hannibal and be happy, but in a week, a month, five years, perhaps, Hannibal would tire of him and find something new to amuse himself with. He would appear loving right up until the precise moment that he did not. And Will would die knowing that he had been blind, and that Hannibal had worked very hard to blind him. 

Or perhaps…

No. He was very confused. He could no longer tell if his vision of their life together was the result of empathising with Hannibal, or purely a product of his own imagination, something Hannibal had planted there to trick him. He found himself irresistibly drawn to the former idea, to the belief that maybe it was true after all, that Hannibal really meant his word. But Will had seen enough of Hannibal’s world to know that was unlikely to be the case. 

“Quiet time again,” he said, unable to process his own confused desires any longer, terrified of what else might come out of Hannibal’s mouth. He grabbed the gag and forced it back between Hannibal’s reluctant lips, his fingers trembling slightly as he secured the strap. Hannibal’s brow creased into an infinitesimal frown, his jaw twitching in displeasure. He’s not hurt, Will told himself, just… _inconvenienced_. The picture he had conjured of their potential life together was still vivid in his mind, and hard to disperse. He had the irrational feeling that Hannibal could see it too, in all its detail – had a feeling, in fact, that the scene was a permanent installation in the memory palace, a wall-length fresco. He glanced at his watch and then around the cell, grounding himself in his present moment. He had work to do. 

“I have something for you to wear,” he said. “If you behave and let me put it on you, then I’ll do something for you in return. Do you want to see it?”

Hannibal’s face was stony. Will reached into his briefcase and raised a dog collar for him to see. It was made of a handsome brown leather, slightly padded for comfort, with Hannibal’s name engraved on the silver tag. He moved over to Hannibal and pulled him into a sitting position on the bed, unclasping the collar and fitting it around the man’s throat. Hannibal turned his face away, his eyes slightly narrowed, but he made no protest. Will could almost feel the chagrin rolling off him. He remembered Chilton was probably watching, or would be later, and smiled to himself. He hoped that Hannibal remembered that too.

“There, perfect,” Will said, running a finger around the edge of the collar to check its fit, then stepping back to admire his design. The collar was very snug around the doctor’s neck; Will could see his slight struggle to swallow, not painful but just a fraction too tight to be comfortable. “I train stray dogs, Hannibal, I can train you too. You need to learn to recognise your master. Look at me.”

Reluctantly, Hannibal turned his face back toward Will. His eyes were hard. Will made a soft sound of pleasure deep in his throat, and ruffled Hannibal’s hair with one hand as he would one of his dogs.

“Good boy,” he said. “I think you earned a treat.”

He knelt before Hannibal as if before an altar and placed his hands on the man’s knees. Hannibal met his eye, and Will did not fail to notice the man’s breath quicken again. He kissed Hannibal’s thigh, very gently, and reached out to touch him. As his fingers brushed Hannibal’s crotch, Hannibal shuddered and gasped minutely. He was very hard. 

Hannibal’s jumpsuit and boxers were already in tatters; it took only one quick tug to split them entirely, revealing his stiff penis and milky white thighs. Will ran a finger up the length of Hannibal’s shaft, feeling something close to awe. He had never seen Hannibal’s naked body before, though he had imagined it often. He did not disappoint. 

“Quite a feast,” he said. “I’ve dreamt of consuming you for some time now.”

Hannibal made a small sound, but it was not protest. For the first time since his capture, he felt a strange thrill at not having his hands free to him. He was suddenly very glad that he could not close his legs, and moved his cuffed feet further back to allow Will easier access. 

His eyes never leaving Hannibal’s, Will slipped the tip of Hannibal’s penis into his warm, wet mouth. Hannibal moaned into his gag as Will’s tongue began to move, his body tensing and then relaxing as Will’s soft lips moved up and down his length. Will’s eyes drifted closed momentarily as he began to find his rhythm; he placed both hands on Hannibal’s knees, parting them slightly further, tilting his head and moving his tongue from the base of Hannibal’s cock to the tip, lingering, going back. He released Hannibal for a moment, breathless, and kissed up and down his inner thigh. Will’s hot breath was almost enough to tip Hannibal over the edge but he restrained himself. Will could feel Hannibal trembling beneath him, breathing fast through his nose, drooling a little around the gag in his mouth. He wet his lips, and took the entirety of Hannibal’s length in his mouth, a soft moan escaping him, his eyes closing again. Then he picked up his rhythm, moving faster and faster until Hannibal felt himself approaching climax, closer –

“Mmmmnnnnnn,” Hannibal moaned, body quivering desperately, on the very edge.

Will released him again, breathless himself, so hard he could barely stand it. “You don’t cum until I tell you that you can cum, do you understand me? You don’t cum until I tell you to cum, or else you get the paddle again.”

Hannibal met Will’s eyes again, his own watering a little. He nodded. 

Will put his lips around Hannibal’s cock again, hands gripping Hannibal’s knees, his eyes on the man’s face, looking up through his lashes, his brown curls falling over his forehead, bouncing with his movements. Hannibal felt incredibly hot in his mouth, incredibly big. It was difficult to take all of him, but Will relished the challenge, carefully controlling his gag reflex despite a few choked noises, breathing through his nose. He could feel Hannibal approaching climax again and slowed down, taunting, denying. He had pictured this scenario a hundred times over after first meeting Hannibal, back when he had been mild-mannered teacher and Hannibal’s disguise was still intact (it felt like a lifetime ago now) – he had pictured sucking Hannibal off in his office, Hannibal’s hand on the back of his head, guiding Will into making him climax before giving him one of his own, and had often woken up in bed drenched in sweat and hard thinking about it. Then he’d seen what Hannibal was, glimpsed through the seams of his person suit, and when he thought of how much flesh must have passed through that insatiable consuming mouth of Hannibal’s, his dreams had become tinged with horror and dread; he would dream he was in bed and Hannibal was moving beneath the sheets, hot mouth slipping around his cock and sucking, licking, _wonderful_ , but as he approached orgasm Hannibal would bite down, and Will would wake up screaming. He wanted Hannibal to know that fear.

“Do you feel exposed?” Will murmured, kissing Hannibal’s thigh again, kissing his stiff cock, running his tongue up it. “You’ve spent your life building places to hide, to conceal what you really are, but I can see you now. You’re vulnerable, you’re… delicate.”

Ever so gently, he grazed Hannibal’s tender flesh with his upper teeth. Hannibal gasped and moaned. Will smiled, and place his lips over Hannibal’s inner thigh instead. He ran his teeth over the skin, then bit down slowly, not too hard, just enough to leave an impression. When he pulled away, he saw the indents of his teeth, already reddening, the suck-bruise blossoming in the middle. It was a good, sensitive spot – Hannibal would feel it for days, see the mark Will had left on him and remember how close those teeth had been. 

“I could consume you entirely, you know,” Will said. “I owe you as much.”

He began to suck Hannibal off again then, and he could see in Hannibal’s eyes that he was a little afraid, afraid and helpless and, god, so aroused, and it felt glorious. As Will began to bob up and down, Hannibal wanted more than anything to take control, to put his hand on the back of Will’s beautiful head, fingers winding around those soft curls, force Will’s head down and thrust himself deeper into Will’s pretty mouth, not letting him up until he was gagging for breath, eyes watering, drooling. He wanted Will begging to please him, denied climax himself – he would fit him with an open-mouth gag so he couldn’t bite even if he wanted to, bind his wrists behind his back so he was as helpless as Hannibal felt now. The feeling of helplessness was so foreign to Hannibal, so frightening and arousing that, for a moment, he almost forgot who he was. He struggled against his restraints, body bristling with pleasure, tight collar making his breath catch in his throat, achingly needing to cum, desperate, losing all control of himself – 

“Willllll,” he gasped into his gag. Will looked so good, _felt so good_ , his mouth so hot, his stubble grazing Hannibal’s thighs and he pressed his face deeper between his legs, and that tongue - 

“Ask properly,” Will said sternly, taking just the tip in his mouth now as one hand reached under Hannibal to massage his balls. 

_“Wiiillll…”_

Will shook his head, his eyebrows raised. He looked so pretty and he felt so damn good – 

Hannibal couldn’t take it anymore. _“Master, please may I cum?”_ he moaned, the words muffled and almost all vowels, but distinguishable. _“Master, please let me cum.”_

Will seemed to think about it for an excruciatingly long time, then nodded, and Hannibal came in a great shuddering rush, crying out in breathless pleasure, torso falling back onto the bunk, unable to stop himself, moaning and rocking. He had not had an orgasm for a long time, since before his capture in fact; he considered it undignified to jerk off in the asylum, with Chilton always on the lookout for juicy tidbits of gossip to chew over in the psychiatric circles. Perhaps it was simply that he was deprived, or more likely it was because it was Will who gave it to him, Will who drew it lovingly from him and took it in his honeyed mouth, but Hannibal felt it was the best he had ever had. He heard music briefly in his head, a new composition, the notes blooming in his mind like a rose garden, sweet but jagged. Will’s serenade to him. 

There was poetry too, rising from the gilt-edged volumes of his mind in many languages all at once, like a great many vibrant birds taking flight and scattering in the sky like pollen, too fast and pure and beautiful to be analysed, only wondered over:

>   
>  Yet mark’d I where the bolt of Cupid fell:  
>  It fell upon a little Western flower,  
>  Before milk-white, now purple with love’s wound,  
>  And maidens call it love-in-idleness…  
>  Trovommi Amor del tutto disarmato  
>  et aperta la via per gli occhi al core,  
>  che di lagrime son fatti uscio et varco…  
>  Toute ambition allumée  
>  Dans notre esprit, basier subtil,  
>  Tombe en cendre ou vole en fumée,  
>  Et l’on se dit: “Qu’en reste-t-il?”  
>  L’amour seul reste…  
>  Hold fastere omkring mig  
>  Med dine runde Arme;  
>  Hold fast, imens dit Hjerte  
>  Endnu har Blod og Varme.  
>  Om lidt, saa er vi skilt ad…  
>  Om lidt, er vi forsvundne…  
> 

Hannibal lay on the bed, his legs hanging over, trembling in the aftermath of his climax, gradually coming back to himself. The soft purple haze faded from his vision as the cell came back into view. He had forgotten where he was, if only for a moment, immersed in beauty, knowing only that Will was with him. The sight of the bare brick walls and severe, ugly furnishings was an unpleasant reminder – _yes, here, in my cage_. But there was Will, lovely Will, as graceful and sensuous as Botticelli’s Mars, as striking as a Caravaggio in the dim light. Will, who could make the poets and the artist’s weep.

Through watering eyes, Hannibal saw Will stand up and wipe his lips slowly with the back of his hand. The knowledge that Will had swallowed it ensued another shuddering wash of pleasure in Hannibal. He could see Will’s erection pressing against the pinstripe of his pants, and he wanted desperately to see it properly, to have it. In that moment, he knew, he would not have tried to hurt Will if Will put it in his mouth. He would have taken it gladly, taken whatever he was given, and thanked him afterwards for the rare gift he had received. That knowledge confused and excited him. He was not himself, but that was fine. He would be what Will wanted him to be. 

Will looked down at Hannibal, teasing a public hair from his mouth as he did so, inspecting his work with pleasure. Hannibal’s hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat. His whole body was quivering, and he was drooling profusely. The collar had been a stroke of genius. The way it made Hannibal’s breath catch ever so slightly, the way his throat had to work to swallow, was highly satisfying. 

“Are you alright?” he said. 

Hannibal nodded, breathing heavily. Will stroked Hannibal’s penis with one hand, the other creeping across the bedsheets and selecting the riding crop he had left there. He laid its leather tress against Hannibal’s nose, hearing his breathing pick up pace, then dragged it down his face, his torso, coming to rest on his cock. He met his eye.

“Do you want a lash?” he said.

He saw Hannibal tense at the thought of the pain, but still he nodded.

“Good boy,” Will murmured approvingly. “How hard do you want it?”

Hannibal thought for a moment, then said, as clearly as he could manage, “As hard as you want, master.”

“That,” Will said, raising the crop, “is the right answer.”

He gave Hannibal’s cock a good smack with the crop, seeing the man’s eyes tear at the sting. He raised the crop again, his eyes questioning.

“Another, please,” Hannibal said, falteringly, the pain in his voice evident even through the muffle of the gag.

Will smacked the crop again, against Hannibal’s inner thigh this time, up high where it curved towards his balls. Hannibal closed his eyes, biting down, but did not whimper.

“Another,” he whispered.

Will smacked him one last time, nice and hard, on the other thigh, then put the crop down. He saw Hannibal breathe a sigh of relief, dribbling. Will leant in and gently kissed the places the crop had struck, then turned and crossed the cell. He returned both the crop and the paddle to his briefcase, humming softly to himself; he didn’t think he would need them again. Discipline only worked so far; desire was more powerful a drive than fear of pain, and more cruel sometimes.

Hannibal had regained some meagre control of himself; he tried to sit up, managed to raise his torso a few inches, then fell back, panting. Will ignored him. 

“Did you enjoy your orgasm?” he asked, after a minute. 

Hannibal made a breathless sound of acquiescence. 

“Good,” Will said. “You should enjoy it. You need to learn to relinquish control and submit to your new master. It doesn’t need to be a painful process unless you make it one. But you’ve been very good so far. You’ve done very well.”

Hannibal moaned softly from the bed, more like a mewling kitten than a beast. Will looked over his shoulder at him, satisfied with his work. He had been unsure, was still unsure really, if Hannibal was a man at all. Whatever dark thing lurked behind his eyes was not human, or at least, not entirely human. But his body was, his body was very human, subject to human pain and pleasure. Will knew how to give out both in healthy measure. He had known for a long time now that appeals to Hannibal’s intellectual vanity would get him nowhere. The only way to get through to Hannibal, really get through to him, was through that flesh-suit he wore. Tame the body, tame the mind. Looking at the dribbling mess of a man on the bed, Will thought he had nearly succeeded.

“You’ve done very well,” he repeated, softly, feeling his own ache becoming overwhelming now. “I think… Yes. I think I’m going to let you have me now.”

He removed a short leather leash from his briefcase and clipped it onto Hannibal’s collar, wrapping the strap around his hand and giving it a little tug. Hannibal gasped as the collar was pulled tighter. He must be getting really uncomfortable by now, Will thought. The tight straightjacket was not a pleasant thing to wear for extended periods; Will knew that from experience. From the way the muscles in his jaw were twitching, and the way he repeatedly drew back his lips to show his teeth, it was clear that the gag was making Hannibal’s face ache. Will considered removing it, but the discomfort in Hannibal’s eyes was too appealing to give up. 

“Do you think you’ve got another one in you?” Will asked.

Hannibal shook his head weakly. He was exhausted. 

“Well, certainly not with that attitude,” Will said. “I’m sure we can draw another out of you. Either way, I’m going to use your hole for my pleasure. Does that sound alright?”

Hannibal nodded meekly. Will smiled.

“Good,” he murmured. Using the leash, he pulled Hannibal up into a sitting position again. His free hand caressed Hannibal’s face, one finger tracing the prominent curve of his cheekbone, smoothing the sweaty hair back from his forehead and stroking his head. He leant in and ran his tongue around Hannibal’s parted lips, then kissed his cheek, lips lingering, his breath very warm on Hannibal’s face. When he drew back, Will saw pure love in Hannibal’s eyes.

“Stand up,” Will commanded.

Hannibal’s spread and cuffed feet found purchase on the cold floor, and he managed to stand. He was shaking slightly.

“I’m going to fuck you now,” Will said. “I think you’ve earned it. Do you want this?”

Hannibal hesitated only a second, then nodded. 

“Use me,” he said, thickly, endearingly.

“Oh, I intend to,” Will murmured, stroking Hannibal’s penis with one hand, the other still holding his leash. Even though Hannibal was so recently spent, Will could feel him twitching receptively beneath his coaxing fingers. “Turn around for me then and bend over the bed.”

Hannibal met Will’s eyes a moment longer, then did as he was told, turning his face to one side and laying his cheek against the sheets. 

Will caressed Hannibal’s ass, still red and tender from his punishment, before gently easing out the plug out of him and setting it aside. Hannibal moaned softly as it came out. Will spread Hannibal’s cheeks with his hands, leant in, and ran his tongue around Hannibal’s asshole, just enough to make him whimper and gasp. He could already see Hannibal getting aroused again; he definitely had another one in him. That was good. His own orgasm would feel better knowing that Hannibal enjoyed it too.

Straightening up, Will unzipped himself, watching Hannibal bristle with anticipation at the sound. He slipped his stiff penis out of his pants and stepped round to let the man see.

“Do you want my cock inside of you?”

Hannibal nodded eagerly, drooling.

“Tell me.”

“I want your cock inside me master,” Hannibal said, or tried to say, struggling terribly to enunciate the words; what came out was little more than an incoherent whine, but Will didn’t care. The sentiment was clear. 

“Good boy. Very good. Beg for it.”

“Please may I have your cock inside me, master?” Hannibal moaned. 

Will smiled. “I bet you’re glad I had Chilton disable his microphones now, aren’t you?”

Hannibal nodded, sweating. Will winked at him, then crossed the cell to get a little lubricant, taking his time, making Hannibal wait for him. 

“I’m sorry, but I’m not going to wear a condom,” he said. “I promise you, I’m clean. Chilton assures me you are too. Clean bill of health, just what the doctor ordered.”

He turned back and surveyed his tableau, the man kneeling before him. What a view it was. Jumpsuit in tatters, torso bound. Hair tousled and dripping with sweat. Will could not contain himself any longer. Running a hand through his own hair, he approached Hannibal and ran a hand over his smooth ass. Then he pressed his hard cock against the man’s thigh. Hannibal groaned in longing, nestling his face deeper into the sheets.

“Get that ass up in the air for me,” Will commanded.

Hannibal complied. Will took his leash in one hand, winding it around his knuckle. His other hand sought out Hannibal’s cock and began to stroke it while he grinded against Hannibal’s leg. Finally, he positioned himself between the man’s thighs. Biting his lip, he slipped the tip of his cock into Hannibal’s ass, feeling him tense and shudder and then submit. He pressed himself a little further into him, and Hannibal whined sweetly. Hannibal had never had another man inside of him before, and though it hurt, it felt better than he could have imagined.

“Do you want to take all of me?” Will said.

Hannibal nodded, and pushed his hips back, forcing Will deeper into him despite the pain. Will chuckled and grabbed his hips, sliding himself into Hannibal entirely and beginning to move, slowly at first and them a little quicker, pulling Hannibal closer as he thrust into him. Hannibal whimpered, his face pressed into the bedsheets, eyelids fluttering. As Will began to find his rhythm, he gave the lash a tug and Hannibal gasped as his head was jerked up. He turned his head, looking over his shoulder at Will, drool hanging from his chin in glistening threads. His eyes were half-closed, and he began to moan with each thrust from Will, biting down on the gag in his mouth, becoming delirious with pleasure. 

Will grinned and let go of the leash, gripping Hannibal’s hips with both hands and thrusting deeper, harder, biting his bottom lip to hold himself back as he felt himself getting too excited. Beneath his unbuttoned shirt, a bead of sweat rolled from the hollow of his throat down his tanned, muscular chest, meeting the looping white scar, pausing with it a moment, then dropped to the floor. One hand reached around Hannibal to rub his cock and Hannibal’s moans deepened. His eyes were closed now, head resting on the mattress, face turned to one side where Will could see it. Will could feel that Hannibal was close as well, his cock hard, his body quivering. 

“Don’t cum until I tell you that you can cum,” he said sternly, slipping his hand under the straightjacket instead, as far as he could, one finger stroking Hannibal’s hard stomach, slick with sweat, wishing he could touch his nipples. 

“Yes master,” Hannibal moaned into his gag. 

Will grabbed the leash and gave it a tug, hearing Hannibal struggle to breathe for a moment, making small choking sounds. “Open your eyes,” he said. “Watch me fucking you. Watch my design.”

Hannibal did as he was told, his eyes watering. He looked at Will, glistening with sweat and _powerful_ , and he loved him. 

“Say thank you,” Will said, a little breathless. “Say thank you for fucking me.”

Hannibal did not hesitate, the words spilling incoherently out of him. “Thank you master. Thank you for fucking me.”

“You’re welcome. Do you want to come?”

“Yes master.”

“Not yet. We’re going to come together.” 

Will took Hannibal’s cock in his hand again and began to rub it as he continued to thrust into him, deeply, feeling himself approaching climax again and Hannibal too, both of them together in that moment, and nothing else seemed to matter. Hannibal felt very far from the asylum; he imagined they were in Italy together, a fine suite with a view of the Duomo, far from Chilton’s prying eyes and petty punishments, just the two of them and Will inside of him, Will in control, and that was fine, it felt _right_ , it felt _glorious_. Will, too, had forgotten where he was; the asylum carried dark memories for him as well, and instead he imagined his simple old house in Wolftrap, a warm fire crackling in the hearth, snow drifting outside the window, two glasses of whisky on the nightstand, forgotten, and Hannibal there not because he had no other choice, but because he wanted to be, because Will had called and he had come running, a good dog, eager to please, loving to a fault. Will closed his eyes, picking up his pace, feeling himself on the edge of something beautiful, and Hannibal so hot beneath him, so perfect – 

Hannibal was trying to say something around his gag. The words were almost completely lost – he was too far gone with pleasure to enunciate, too breathless – but Will understood perfectly.

“I love you.”

Will bit his lip. “You can cum,” he said.

Hannibal came a fraction of a second before he did, gasping and moaning; Will cried out, feeling Hannibal’s body tense under him, and came inside him in a flood of such intense earth-shattering pleasure that he felt instantly weak at the knees. He saw Hannibal’s bare toes curl on the cold floor; saw him biting down on the gag, eyes half-open and unfocussed, delirious. Then Will felt his own mind wander for a moment – he was following a feathered stag down a decadent corridor lined with exquisite frescoes, the stag’s hoofs and his own footsteps on the marble floor echoing in the vastness of the space, the aria of Bach’s Goldberg Variations drifting from a distant room, heading towards something, the stag leading the way, heading towards someone and the music swelling in his mind, every cell in his body exploding with light. It lasted only a second, perhaps less, but the image was so vivid that Will would have sworn after that he had been to that place before, must have been, to see it so clearly. In the same second, as both men came, Hannibal’s consciousness disappeared into the chambers of his mind palace as it had so often before, his fingers already poised over the keys of his ornate baroque harpsicord, and as the music began to flow out of him like wine from a bottle, he was dimly aware that someone else was there, at the end of the corridor, approaching, close now. For the briefest of moments, Will stood behind Hannibal watching him play with the unhurried ease of a lover; Hannibal reached over his shoulder with one hand to link fingers with Will, and they were happy. 

The sensation was over so fast that, later, when both slept in separate beds so far from one another and tried to reconstruct the moment in their minds, neither could be sure if it really happened, or if it was only a dream disguising their reality. Hannibal would return to the room often with baited breath, but would not find Will there again. He would wait, but the only footsteps he would ever hear again the vast palace were his own. 

Will collapsed onto Hannibal, holding him tight as the last shudders of his orgasm rippled through him. Hannibal sank to his knees and Will slumped down with him, still inside of him, his cheek resting on the man’s shoulder, exhausted. After a minute, breathing heavily, he raised his head enough to kiss Hannibal’s neck and shoulders, tease his earlobe with his teeth, then drew back and pulled out, feeling sleepy but glorious. Hannibal’s body was still shaking a little; he was a sweaty, devastated mess. He had made a wet patch on the bed, on the floor; some of his own semen still dripped down his thigh and met Will’s where it leaked from his ass. Will pulled on the leash around his neck until Hannibal raised his head and straightened his back, then pushed him onto the ground. Hannibal did not even attempt to sit up this time, panting and exhausted. 

Will ignored him for a time as he redressed, humming to himself once more. When he turned back, Hannibal was lying as he had left him, in a puddle of his own sweat and cum. Will knelt beside him and pushed his face to one side, unfastening the strap behind his head and easing the gag from his mouth. Hannibal’s chin and cheek were wet with his drool but he seemed not to care. He was looking up at Will with the unyielding love of a well-trained dog.

Will put his hand on Hannibal’s face, caressed his cheek, stroked back the sweaty hair that had fallen over his forehead again. He hesitated, then leant in and kissed him softly on the mouth, no longer afraid of being bitten. The thought did not even cross Hannibal’s mind. He accepted Will’s kiss as he would a life preserver if he were drowning, and was sorry when it ended.

Will unclasped the collar he had placed around Hannibal’s neck and removed it. He put one hand on Hannibal’s throat and pressed down a little, testing how it would feel, enjoying the struggle of the muscles beneath his grip, the stifled choking whimpers he drew from Hannibal. He could kill him now and be done. It would take only a minute, a lacklustre struggle. He could picture Hannibal’s lips turning blue, the noiseless gasp of his mouth opening and closing, his eyes on Will’s face even as the blood vessels burst and the life drained out of them. He could picture it, but he knew he couldn’t do it. He let Hannibal go and put the dog collar in his briefcase, snapping it shut. His hands were shaking. He hunched over the desk, breathing heavily. It was Hannibal who broke the silence, his voice hoarse and slightly pained.

“When I get out, Will, will you come with me? Will you run away with me? I will wait for you.”

Will could not bear to turn around and look at him when he spoke. His voice was barely a whisper, but it felt very loud in the silence of the cell. “You’re not going to get out, Hannibal. I’m going to make sure of it. Chilton may be incompetent, but his staff aren’t. You’re not going to leave this building, let alone the country, ever again. I’ll dedicate my life to that, if I have to.”

There was a silence.

“You would deny me my life,” Hannibal said, and the huskiness in his voice now seemed to come from more than his strained throat; he sounded heartbroken. 

“Not your life,” Will whispered. He knew very well that the only way to contain the threat Hannibal posed, really contain it, was to end his life – Jack Crawford understood that too; there was a reason he had pushed so vehemently for the death penalty. Jack still could only sleep some nights, as his wife lay dying beside him and his scars itched, by picturing Hannibal strapped cruciform to a bed in a white room, dressed in white, needles in his arms and his body twitching a little, twitching as he died, and Jack would have to touch him after, like doubting Thomas touching the wounds of Christ, touch the devil to make sure he was really, finally dead. Will had had the dream himself, even before Jack had confided in him about it, though he always saw Hannibal in the electric chair, as he had once pictured himself, body jerking, long fingers hooked around the wooden arms, blue veins distending in his arms and then relaxing, falling still, gone, the mask coming off and his face slack, broken… Will had had the dream but it felt like a nightmare; he knew that Jack was right when he said in court it was the only way – _you’ve got to kill the devil, really kill him, or he’ll keep coming back Will, he won’t stop_ – but he couldn’t bring himself to want it. The thought of Hannibal dead - _the grave's a fine and private place, but none, I think, do there embrace_ \- was too much to bear. “Not your life,” he said again, softly, as if they were attending a funeral. It felt like they were. 

“My freedom then,” Hannibal said. “And to what end? For the sake of people like Jack Crawford, people who used you Will – used and abused you. For their peace of mind you would confine me to a prison cell for the rest of my existence.”

“ _You_ used me. _You_ abused me. You have a really selective memory, Dr Lecter.”

“I love you, Will,” Hannibal said. “I would not dream of hurting you again. If you came away with me, I could make you happy. I would run away with you to the ends of the earth, if you asked me to.”

Will turned around. His face was set.

“I prefer you here, where I can keep an eye on you,” he said. “Goodbye, Dr Lecter. I’ll have Chilton come and remove your restraints in a little while, when you’ve had a chance to think about me.”

He stepped around Hannibal and out of the cell. He began to walk away when Hannibal called out.

“Will you visit again, Will? If you insist on keeping me here, will you at least stop by now and then? Keep me company.”

“Maybe,” Will said, simply, without emotion. He left without turning back. 

He did not see that Hannibal had begun to cry.  


**Author's Note:**

> The poetry Hannibal thinks of is an amalgamation of four separate poems in various languages. It seemed like the sort of thing that he would think of when he came; even his orgasms are pretentious. 
> 
> The English lines are from Shakespeare's 'A Midsummer Night's Dream' - the flower functions in the play as a love potion, dropped onto the eyelids; love is irrational and chaotic.  
> The Italian is from one of Petrarch's sonnets, and roughly translates as 'Love found me all disarmed and found the way/ was clear to reach my heart down through the eyes / which have become the halls and doors of tears'.  
> The French lines are from Victor Hugo's 'Aimons Toujours! Aimons Encore!' ('Let Us Love Always! Let Love Endure!) and roughly translates as 'All ambition kindled / In our spirit, that subtle brazier, / Crumbles to ashes or flies in smoke, / And one says: "What will remain"? / ... / Only love remains...'  
> The Danish (I chose a Danish poem in tribute to Mads) is from the poem 'Angst' by Emil Aarestrup, and roughly translates (though I've seen a lot of variations in translation) as 'Hold tighter round me / With your round arms, / Hold on, while your heart / Still has blood and warmth. / ... / Soon then, we will be apart / ... / Soon, we will be gone'.
> 
> I thought these lines of poetry conveyed Hannibal's feelings towards Will... he knows they're irrational, their love has injured them both, but even with his entire life stripped away Hannibal finds his love for Will remains. They are two lost men holding each other in the dark, each knowing it cannot last but clinging to it anyway, clinging to the warmth and comfort of the other, despite the pain.
> 
> For reference, when Hannibal thinks that Will resembles 'Botticelli's Mars', I am referring to the painting 'Venus and Mars' by Sandro Botticelli. It hangs in the National Museum of Scotland in Edinburgh and expresses the sentiment that love conquers all. Mars, the God of War, is disarmed and asleep while his lover Venus, Goddess of Love, is alert. Hannibal and Will's relationship is one of stripping away their defenses, and I always think of them when I see the painting. It is quite beautiful. 
> 
> A late addition, the line 'the grave's a fine and private place, but none, I think, do there embrace' is taken from Andrew Marvell's 'To His Coy Mistress', a metaphysical poem which uses the brevity of life and the inevitability of death as a valid argument to get a woman to bed you. While it is somewhat tongue in cheek, like much of Marvell's poetry, I find the line very poignant. For two men whose lives are consumed with death, I think the sentiment would not be lost on Will, and particularly not on the hedonistic Hannibal. 
> 
> I know a fic doesn't need footnotes, but I thought I'd include them in case anyone was interested. I'm a lit student and I can't help myself :)


End file.
